


Silver Scars, Scarlet Rain

by WintersEve



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Before Carnival, Bruce is a Slut With a Plan, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, First Time Blow Jobs, Jerome Almost Feels Something, Knifeplay, M/M, One Shot, Smut, The Boys Play a Game, Why Does Everything Happen in the Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 16:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintersEve/pseuds/WintersEve
Summary: If only Bruce had been a little less forward in his attempt to save his life, he wouldn't be in this position now. But once the light had gone from the streets of Gotham, so too evaporated the consequences. And the odds of winning the little game set before him by Jerome Valeska were slim. So the question is, how desperately did Bruce need to win?





	Silver Scars, Scarlet Rain

**Author's Note:**

> ~I see a lot of non-con fics for this episode and I wanted to write something a little more consensual. Not to mention I've been itching to exploit this scene for literal years~

Silence settled over Wayne Manor like the hush of a crowd witnessing the execution of a condemned man. Anxious butterflies rose in Bruce’s chest, clamoring for his attention in the quiet darkness of the study. And then the phone rang.

Pleasant yet menacing chimes echoed through the empty air. Alfred shot him a questioning glance, slowly inching towards the desk where the phone sat ringing innocently.

Anxiety blossomed into full-blown panic. “Alfred…” Bruce warned, suddenly fearful for whatever voice stood waiting on the other side.

Lifting a careful finger to his lips, his butler hushed him before slipping a gun that Bruce didn’t even know he had from his waistband. Whirling around, Alfred was caught by a blow from a man in black and white stripes. One of the cultists. Realizing what was happening, Bruce dropped to the ground, shielding his butler from the descending monochrome maniacs. That’s when the laughter began.

Perhaps laughter wasn’t the right word. More like agonizingly drawn-out guttural chuckles coming from none other than the red-haired anarchist himself. Dressed in all white, Jerome Valeska took his sweet time making his way into the study, even pausing to mimic a ghost as if this was all some kind of joke to him. Which, in retrospect, it probably was.

The fire flared to life as the lunatic tottered dangerously close to him. Bruce felt a distinct sense of unease flood his system as he took in Jerome’s newly stapled-on face, the flesh barely holding itself together. The warm flickering of flames illuminated his marred features. And layered within that unease was a strange feeling of pity for the resurrected teenager. He’d probably be pretty pissed too if he was kidnapped, coerced into terrorizing the city, murdered just to secure an election, and then brought back to life only to be forced back into that same sick, twisted world. 

All of that pity was immediately thrown out the window as Jerome leaned down, leering at him. “My, my,” he grinned, features contorting unnaturally. “Look how big you’ve gotten!”

“Jerome Valeska…” was all Bruce could murmur. “What do you want?” Assured now that Alfred was at least alive, he rose to his full height. Jerome stood with him, mirroring his movements.

“Well, I just came back and all, and, I’ll be honest: I was expecting a greater reception. I mean, come on! What does a guy have to do around here to get a banner and some balloons hung in his honor? So since that didn’t happen, I decided to throw myself a little celebration. And it just so happens that you’re the...pinata, let’s say, of this party. And because, y’know, the last thing I remember wanting to do was kill you. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. Or, three, in this case,” Jerome added, gesturing to Alfred.

If there was ever a time to pull out his rich-boy attitude, it was now or never. “I don’t blame you,” Bruce smirked. “After all, what a privilege that would be, killing boy billionaire Bruce Wayne on your first night back in town. Not to mention the statement you’d make! Shame only six of your cronies, Alfred, and myself are here to witness your impeccable showmanship.” His gamble was a longshot, but Bruce was praying to whatever higher power existed out there that it would pay off.

“Oh?” Jerome quirked an eyebrow, head tilted sharply to the side. “Are you saying your death isn’t  _ grandiose _ enough? Not up to your standards, maybe?” He was sort of dancing throughout the study now, plucking up objects on a whim and tossing them aside with almost as much disinterest. “Not a big enough stage for the Prince of Gotham, eh?”

“Me? I’m not saying anything. I’m merely impressed by your conservative perspective on the whole thing. I mean, you go to all this trouble to blow up the powerplant, air that inspirational broadcast, and even manage to break into my house. And for nothing. You’re content to simply kill me here and now, and I suppose I...well…” Bruce gazed out the large windows forlornly, like Jerome’s actions were a depressing insult.

“‘Well’ what?” the maniac prompted, impatient as always.

Bruce turned to meet his eager green gaze. “I guess I’m just a little disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” the red-haired boy repeated, furrowing his brow in confusion.

With a sigh, he responded, “You’re Jerome Valeska. One of the most infamous criminals to grace the streets of Gotham City. And you’re here to murder  _ me,  _ Bruce Wayne, the heir to every brick, every street corner, and every institution the city has to offer. My company is the machine that keeps the cogs of Gotham running. My death should  _ mean  _ something! And you’re telling me no one’s going to see it?” He stepped forward towards Jerome, who’d flicked open a white switchblade as he spoke. Bruce didn’t spare the knife even a glance. He wanted Jerome to be sure all of his attention was on him.

“I see what you’re trying to do,” Jerome whispered maliciously, leaning closer. “You’re trying to buy yourself time so you and your butler can escape.” A thin finger tugged at his turtleneck, pulling the collar down to expose his skin. The cool caress of metal brushed against his neck. “But you overestimate my patience. The idea of slitting that pretty pink throat of yours...well, it’s driving me mad,” Jerome practically growled.

Bruce’s breath hitched in his throat, right where the blade pressed against it. Whether the reaction was from fear or his inexplicably rising heart rate, he would never be sure. 

“It’s just rather anticlimactic, don’t you think? You go to such great lengths and if I die here, isn’t that a bit of a wasted effort? I am the ruling elite. Isn’t destroying everything I stand for the core of your message? What would the rest of your followers think of you if you just slit my throat like any  _ common  _ criminal and left me here to b-”

He was cut off by that same finger pressing against his lips. Jerome Valeska was shushing him in his own house. Bruce tried not to think too much about the contact.

“If you’re so brilliant,” Jerome began, eyes narrowed dangerously, “what do you propose I do, Brucie?”

The finger didn’t remove itself from his lips so Bruce had to answer around it. The only problem was, he wasn’t quite sure what to say. Jerome was right when he inferred Bruce was just trying to buy some time until he could think of a better plan. But how exactly was he supposed to talk his way out of being diced in his study? What would make Jerome want to keep him alive? Since the sociopath derived most his pleasure from murdering people, he was running low on options.

Jerome was getting impatient again. Curling his finger, he shoved his knuckle against Bruce’s top lip, watching in satisfaction as blood rose to the surface, flushing it a vivid red. All Bruce felt was a sharp pressure. But the expression on his tormentor’s face gave him an idea. A shameful, disgusting idea. But an idea nonetheless.

“I asked you how I should solve my little conundrum,” Jerome reminded him, the switchblade twirling once more in his other hand. “What should I do, Bruce?”

“Well, I suppose…” he started, lowering his voice. “Anything you want.” The finger pressed harder into his lip as he spoke, but Bruce just whispered around it. “After all, the lights are out. You made the game. We’re all just ignorant players. Whatever you decide to do, the rest of us have no choice but to follow along. You’re in charge,” he stated, carefully gauging Jerome’s reaction.

Bruce’s words seemed to appeal to the maniac. His eyebrows remained curiously engaged but his smirk returned as he slowly dragged his pale finger down Bruce’s lips, pushing it into his mouth as he met no objection. 

Refusing to back down now that he’d settled on a (temporary) course of action, Bruce met the boy’s gaze and allowed the digit to pass his lips, swiping the underside of it with his tongue. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, but at least he was alive. Well aware that Jerome’s followers were watching them with almost obsessive intent, Bruce instinctively hollowed his cheeks and took the digit farther into his mouth. Undeniably fascinated at this point, Jerome remained silent, observing Bruce more devotedly than any of the cultists. He had never been more glad that Alfred was unconscious. Then again, if he were awake, Bruce probably wouldn’t be in this degrading situation in the first place.  _ Degrading? _ He asked himself as he continued to suck on Jerome’s finger, much to the redhead’s satisfaction.  _ You put yourself in this position. Clearly, you wanted it to happen. _ Ignoring that voice in his head, Bruce pulled off his finger with a  _ pop. _

Barely phased, Jerome commanded his followers, “Take the manservant downstairs. Make sure he’s comfortable. And someone call the others and tell them we’re going to be a little late.” His bright eyes never left Bruce’s as he spoke.

As soon as the room was cleared, Jerome gripped Bruce’s hair, yanking his head to the side. He felt hot breath against his ear sending shivers through him as the sociopath whispered, “Let’s play a little game, just you and I, before the night’s events really begin, yeah?”

What did Jerome want from him? Easy submission? A bratty attitude? Tears? He struck Bruce as an “all of the above” sort of guy, which did nothing to improve his situation. 

“I love games,” Bruce breathed, remembering his invader had a short fuse. He shouldn’t stay silent for too long.

“Me too, Brucie,” Jerome practically purred in his ear, tugging him over to the sofa.

After a brief survey of the room, he decided that if he could just make it behind the desk, maybe he could reach the handgun he knew Alfred kept in the bottom drawer. Unless that was the one he pulled out earlier, in which case, Bruce was screwed. But it was the only Plan B he had right now since he  _ really  _ didn’t want to follow through with Plan A. 

The hand in his hair pushed against his head, shoving him roughly onto the couch. Bruce braced himself for some sort of attack from the maniac but all Jerome did was seat himself comfortably next to him like he owned the place.

“I thought of a game for us to play. I think you’ll find it...satisfactory,” Jerome stated, bringing his knife into view once more.

Why the hell did he do this to himself? He should’ve just talked Jerome down or attacked him or  _ something! _ But no, instead he had to be an irrational teenage boy who only had his mind set on one thing. Or at least, that’s what all the adults in his life told him he was supposed to be thinking about. 

“I’m sure I will. What’s the game?”

“Consider it to be something like the devil’s coin toss. I throw the open blade into the air, you catch it.” To emphasize his point, Jerome threw and caught the knife himself. “If you grab it by the handle, I can do anything I’d like to you.  _ But, _ if you’re stubborn enough to catch it by the blade…” Jerome tossed it once more and plucked it out of the air by the silver blade, extending his palm to show the crimson line that now ran across it. “…you can do the same to me. Everything is in the bounds of this room, of course. All acts of violence are fair game. Attempts on the other’s life are expected but not necessarily recommended. And a forewarning,” Jerome smiled, deceptively warm, “I bite.”

Matching his light, even tone, Bruce responded, “Sounds like fun.” As he spoke, his mind was racing, trying to analyze his options. There were two distinct ways this disturbing game of Jerome’s could go, and neither of them were favorable. He most certainly wasn’t ready to die, especially not at the hands of Jerome Valeska, although, he really didn’t want to give in to stupid Plan A either. But apart from being an intense sadist, Jerome was an almost equally as devoted masochist. Maybe he could use that to his advantage.

Jerome tapped Bruce’s cheek with the knife to get his attention. “I swear, Bruce. You check out more often than I did while I was being beat senseless by my dearly departed mother.” 

“I don’t blame you,” Bruce said quietly.

The sociopath stared at him blankly. Finally, he said, “You’re ruining the atmosphere I worked so painstakingly to set. Are we playing or not?”

“Yes,” he answered hastily. “We’re playing.”

“Good. Catch, then, little Prince.” He reached for the knife as it flew into the air. If Bruce could only grab it by the handle once, he could... _ What, you’re going to ask him for permission to blow out his knee? Another genius plan concocted by Bruce Wayne. _

Unfortunately for him, he instinctively caught the knife by the handle, causing a wide grin to spread across Jerome’s face.

“Tsk tsk, Brucie. I even made it easy for you. It’s almost like you  _ want _ to lose.” Bruce knew Jerome was just baiting him, but his words sent chills through the younger boy. Fingers tugged at his own, prying the knife from his hands. Jerome raised the blade and an eyebrow in tandem. “Pull up your shirt.”

“What?” he asked, taken aback.

“Bruce,” Jerome crooned sinisterly. “I don’t like repeating myself. Shirt. Up. Enleve. Ta. Chemise.” Who the hell decided that Jerome Valeska could speak French? The red-haired murderer kept making the job of hating him incredibly difficult. Bruce focused his thoughts on images of the charity benefit where he watched Jerome kill several innocent civilians. These helped ease his inner turmoil, until Jerome became impatient with him once more.

With a sigh, he muttered, “Do I have to do everything myself?” Jerome’s fingers knotted themselves in the hem of Bruce’s sweater as he tugged it upwards, exposing an indecent amount of his well-defined porcelain stomach. 

“So the Prince of Gotham works out,” Jerome hummed. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t prepared for that. Anyways, to business.” The blade was suddenly hovering over his flesh. Strengthening his resolve, Bruce made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t react. He wouldn’t even blink.

“I think you’d look rather pretty with my name carved into your flesh, don’t you?” Yes, because he wanted nothing more than a constant reminder of everything that happened tonight.

“Absolutely.”

Both of Jerome’s eyebrows shot up. Clearly, he was too used to people crying and begging for him to go away. Bruce knew if he did either of those things, at least, in a way Jerome found boring, he’d be dead in seconds. So he’d keep playing Jerome’s game for as long as it took. And he’d play it as unpredictably as possible.

The tip of the knife pressed against his stomach. Bruce evened his breathing and did his best not to flex the muscles in case the maniac hit something important. Jerome insisted on looking him in the eyes the entire time, grip still tight on his shirt. Seeing that Bruce wasn’t even wincing, Jerome dug the blade in farther. His skin was now stinging sharply. The sociopath suddenly gave it a sharp jerk and Bruce gasped in surprise. Jerome cackled but continued to draw letters in his stomach.

“There’s the sound I wanted to hear,” Jerome grinned.

“Oh?” Bruce exhaled, trying to maintain his composure while his skin was cut open. “I’d have made it earlier if I’d known.”

For some reason, the older boy took pity on him, removing the blade from his flesh. With a glance at his stomach, Bruce confirmed that the letters  _ J.V. _ were now permanently etched into the skin.

“Up for another round?” Jerome inquired, examining the streaks of blood now decorating the knife.

“Only if you are,” Bruce replied through gritted teeth, pulling his shirt out of Jerome’s grasp so it covered his new tattoo. This time, he needed to do something to gain an ounce of the maniac’s trust so he wouldn’t question it when Bruce went for the gun.

“Then let’s play. Clean this off first.” He held the knife in front of Bruce but when he went to take it, Jerome’s hand remained firmly around the handle. “Put your talent to use, Bruce. After all, you were showing me earlier just how gifted you are with that tongue of yours.”

Plan A was getting harder and harder to ignore. Jerome wanted him to fucking (pardon his language) lick the blade clean? Fine. He wasn’t just going to lick the blood off. He was going to make a show of it because there’s nothing Jerome liked better than a show.

Locking his gaze with those dangerous green eyes, he flicked his tongue out, swiping it along the side of the blade and swirling it around the tip. He wrapped his lips around the knife and took the entire blade in his mouth as he licked every drop of blood from its silver surface. Jerome was content to simply watch him at first, but as his ministrations became more obscene, he shifted closer to Bruce and placed a hand behind his head, threading his fingers in the brunette’s curls. He slowly began controlling Bruce’s movements, pushing and tugging at his hair. The threat of cutting his tongue on the keen edge was at the forefront of his mind, but rather than terrify him, he found it strangely exhilarating. 

Finally, Jerome let him ease off the blade, leaning in to whisper, “I never knew billionaire brat Bruce Wayne was into knifeplay.”

Ignoring the new spike in his heart rate, he replied just as softly, “There are lots of things you don’t know about me. Now are we playing or are you already tired?”

“How could I possibly be tired?” Jerome exclaimed before adding a more sinister, “The night’s barely begun.” He tossed the open knife into the air again and Bruce knew that, no matter what, he  _ had  _ to catch it by the blade. So when he plucked it from the air, a flash of triumph coursed through him as a scarlet line erupted along his palm.

“Ooh, things are finally picking up!” Jerome laughed. “Go on, Brucie. What are you gonna do to me? Make me tango with the coat rack? Turn my face inside out? Ask me for your freedom?”

“Why would I do that?” Bruce asked, trying his best to sound perplexed. “I finally have you all to myself. It’d be a waste to try and negotiate my way out now. Besides, we both know you wouldn’t let me go that easily.”

Some of this was humiliation was worth it just to see the brief flashes of confusion cross Jerome’s face. “Alright, alright, you’re not as naive as you look. So what, then, Bruce darling?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Even I’m not that stupid.”

“Trust me,” Bruce said calmly. If he could pull this off, he’d have the sociopath in his pocket.

“If you try to kill me, I get to try and kill you back. That’s the democratic way.”

“I promise,” and he meant it. “Close your eyes, Jerome.” And to Bruce’s surprise, he did.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Bruce shut his own eyes. Carefully, cautiously, he pressed his lips to Jerome’s and felt a slight sense of accomplishment when the older boy didn’t pull away. He’d never kissed a boy before. Girls, yes, but he couldn’t tell if he’d liked that. This though, for some reason, he liked very much. Enough to the point where he couldn’t decide if he needed to pull away or if he never wanted to move. Deciding the latter was easier to cope with for now, he wrapped an arm behind Jerome’s neck and kissed him again. Surprising him further, the hand that had wound itself in Bruce’s hair earlier returned while another snaked around his waist. Bruce felt himself being pulled closer to Jerome, almost on top of him, as the red-haired boy took control of the kiss. 

A tug on his hair caused Bruce to gasp again, and Jerome took advantage of the noise, swiping his tongue along Bruce’s bottom lip. The action almost seemed as though it was a request, although he was sure Jerome would never admit it out loud. He parted his lips willingly (how did he have this effect on Bruce?), and met Jerome’s tongue with his own. The steaming kiss was making him irrational, desperate, even. He couldn’t think straight. All he knew was that the electric feeling of being tangled up with Jerome Valeska was one he’d never experienced before and one he was rapidly becoming addicted to.

_ I want to make him feel good so he doesn’t want to hurt me,  _ Bruce reasoned with himself, dipping from Jerome’s lips to his graceful neck. He had to stop for a moment to undo the collar fastened  to Jerome’s uncomfortable-looking outfit, tossing the collar and attached leash to the side before swiping a stripe along Jerome’s neck.

The grip on his hair tightened as Bruce traced dizzying circles with his tongue, pressing his lips and teeth to the skin. He could feel Jerome’s pulse racing beneath him, and the idea that Bruce could be having the same effect on Jerome as he was having on him made the younger boy feel an unexpected sense of pride. While Bruce sucked a red mark on his neck, Jerome’s already raspy breathing grew ragged. His free hand slipped under Bruce’s sweater again, tracing the initials of his name with a slender finger. 

But as soon as Bruce’s mistake of wearing tight jeans came to his own attention, he pulled away immediately, breaking free from Jerome’s grasp to resituate himself on the sofa.

Jerome let him escape, watching him with obvious amusement and a barely concealed hunger. Before he could open his mouth to make a degrading remark, Bruce asked, “Any interest in Round Three?”

“I was just starting to enjoy myself, brat.” The nickname did nothing to alleviate Bruce’s situation.

“So, is that a yes?”

The grin returned to Jerome’s face, although the scars didn’t stand out to Bruce so much this time. “I’ve never been more interested in Round Three. And trust me, I’ve been through a lot of rounds.” Bruce hated the amount of sympathy the redhead was garnering from him.

A careful eye guaranteed him another by-the-blade catch. Two matching incisions decorated both his palms now. Jerome simply watched him expectantly.

It was unsettling, the way he observed things. Bruce had heard people criticize Jerome for being too hasty, too irrational. But he disagreed. Jerome had to be an almost compulsive planner- how else could he concoct such elaborate schemes in a matter of hours? And he was always watching his interest (or prey) with undivided attention. After all, if he missed even the tiniest detail, he lost the opportunity to use that in his favor. No, his vigilance was undeniably intentional. And right now, that vigilance was Bruce’s greatest obstacle.

“I haven’t got all day, love,” Jerome remarked, examining his fingernails.

“It’s night,” Bruce pointed out. “I mean,” he hurried to correct himself, “I was just thinking.” Jerome wasn’t the type of person to inquire meaninglessly, so Bruce just continued. “About what I wanted you to do. You said anything, right?”

“Yes…” Jerome answered, eyeing him curiously. “But fine print is up for interpretation. For example, if you ask my stab myself, I’ll do it. I don’t go back on my word, after all. But I’ll do it somewhere inconsequential, like the earlobe.”

“I’d never ask you to stab yourself,” Bruce said, his voice soft following Jerome’s damaged vocal chords.

“Boring, but I’ll respect it.”

Bruce scooted closer to him on the couch. His movements were slow, like he was afraid of startling some skittish animal. “In fact, I don’t want you to  _ do _ anything. I want you to tell me something.”

“I’ve told you lots of things, it’s not my fault if you weren’t paying attention.” Jerome was trying to come off as nonchalant, but he kept glancing at Bruce out of the corner of his eye, which told him the boy was uncomfortable with something. Jerome almost never refused direct eye contact.

“Well, I’d like you to tell me something else.”

_ “Brat,” _ he heard Jerome mutter. Bruce chose to ignore him.

“Why do you hate Gotham?”

The sociopath looked up at this, meeting Bruce’s gentle gaze. He stopped picking at his nails. “That’s not the question I thought you were going to ask me.”

“You thought I was going to ask about your mom.” It wasn’t a question, the way Bruce said it. He already knew. Jerome was technically right, two years ago, when he’d said they were both orphans, even if Jerome had killed his parents. But they’d both watched them die before their eyes.

“Everyone always asks about my mom,” Jerome smiled bitterly.

“I don’t care about your mom. I care about what she did to you. Not  _ why _ she did it, but the fact that she hurt you. And you’re the only one who ever faced the consequences for her abuse.”

Eyes now firmly shut, Jerome murmured, “I used to think she didn’t mean it. I really did. When she’d hit me and snap at me for little things. I thought she was hurting. I’d never hit her back. I couldn’t bring myself to even raise my voice. But then she started dragging me into the closet, the trailer only had one, and using the rod. Y’know, the metal one that you hang your clothes on. She’d slide all the hangers off and tell me to turn around. The coats just piled in the corner after a while, collecting dust because there was no point in hanging them back up. And I still wanted to forgive her. Then the men started coming. After my b- after things changed, there’d be a new one almost every night. Three of ‘em in a rotation, really. And they’d help. It became a favorite pastime of theirs. Anything could be a weapon if they tried hard enough. No one felt any sympathy for Lila Valeska’s hellish son, after all. Even dear old dad told me no one cared. I tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t happening. I wanted to believe she didn’t mean it. Until she told me she meant it, the night before I killed her. She said I wasn’t her son. So she wasn’t my mom. A day later, she wasn’t anyone.”

A moment of heavy silence filled the room. Bruce didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jerome cut him off. “I guess I hate Gotham because it hates me. It’s sort of stupid, if you think about it. I mean, it’s a pile of crime and concrete. What else did I expect? But I guess I wish that, even after I killed her,  _ someone _ would have cared. But did James Gordon care? When my case landed in his hands he treated it like an inconvenience. I was ruining date night. Even when my father gave him the clue for the hatchet, it was clear he wanted to just be done with the whole thing. The case was handled within the same day. And where did I end up? In a loony bin without a trial, a psych evaluation, or a single person concerned about what would happen to me. Gotham chewed me up and spit me out. Literally, I guess, into the hands of Galavan who promised he’d make me a star after all my years in the shadows. All I’d wanted was an audience. And after a year in Arkham, I’d do just about anything to get one. I think he knew that and used it. But it scared him. So he killed me. And who was the villain that time? Me, of course. But y’see, by now, I was interested in playing the role. I’d been cast, and I was already tired of the script in my hands. I want to rewrite it so badly, Bruce. And I want it to be written in  _ my  _ words.” He reopened his eyes, gazing at Bruce, and for the first time, Bruce saw vulnerability there. It was manic, like everything else about the boy, but it was exposed. And he felt his heart break for the red-haired convict who’d suffered so much in silence.

“You didn’t do anything to deserve your mother’s hatred. No child ever could. But what you’re doing right now? Tearing the civil order apart at its seams? That’s why the city is so insistent on you being the villain, Jerome. The role has consumed you.” Bruce reached out an arm to stroke the back of Jerome’s hand but the teenager jerked it away. That menacing grin had returned to his face.

“But don’t I play it so well, Brucie?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously, slowly getting to his feet. It was now or never. If he thought about it too much, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. “Incredibly well.” He took a step back towards the desk. “It’s no wonder Jim couldn’t discern the act from the real you.” Another step.

“There is no real me anymore,” Jerome snorted, caught up in the denial of his introspection. He brushed a finger along the edge of his switchblade. Quietly, Bruce tried to pull open the bottom drawer with his foot. “Don’t you see it, Bruce? I’ve been reborn into something new, something...meaningful!” A squeak sounded from the drawer’s slides. Jerome’s attention snapped to where Bruce was standing. A sense of dread descended upon him. He dropped to his knees, trying to find the gun before Jerome got to him.

The drawer was empty. His fingernails scratched against the barren wood but there was nothing to grab. Despair filled Bruce. Not only had he tried to deceive Jerome Valeska, at his most emotionally vulnerable no less, but there was no reward. His plan had failed. A muscular arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him back against the maniac’s chest. When had he crept up behind him? The knife was positioned once more at his throat, but the threat held far more finality this time.

“Bruce…” Jerome crooned, breath tickling his ear. “That’s a shame, isn’t it? And you were being such a good boy, too, listening to my old ramblings.” He shut his eyes, preparing for the worst. “You know what happens to good boys who act out, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bruce answered, trying to keep his voice steady. His heart began beating again, but he knew it was out of fear this time. He regretted trying to lower Jerome’s defenses. It was only going to make him more vicious, more vengeful.

“Say it,” Jerome hissed.

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d already sunk so low in the past hour. He knew exactly what the sociopath wanted him to say. But Bruce was done playing.

The blade pressed into his throat and alarm flared through him. “Say it, darling,” Jerome repeated, softer this time. Every once of weakness was gone.

The things this murderer had done to him, and more importantly, said to him were already starting to manipulate Bruce’s psyche. Or maybe the night’s events had only solidified thoughts that had existed before, pushed to the corner of his mind. Whatever the reason was, Bruce heard himself whisper, “They get punished.”

“There’s my good boy,” Jerome murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. It made him shiver. “Now all we need to figure out is  _ how. _ ” Bruce laid his head in compliance against the older boy’s shoulder as Jerome tilted it to the side. He felt a tongue flick out to lap at the scarlet drops that had welled up along his throat.

“Are you going to kill me?” Bruce finally said, opening his eyes. If he was being honest, this wasn’t the worst way to die.

“Kill you?” Jerome asked, strangely surprised. “Why on earth would I kill you?”

“Because I tried to trick you. Because you’ve told me things I shouldn’t know.” Bruce was confused. Of course he was going to kill him, wasn’t he?

“And I’ll need to train that little bit of disobedience out of you; I’m honestly surprised it took ya that long. But you’ve proven yourself to be an invaluable source of entertainment, Brucie. And a good listener. Why would I kill you when I can keep you?”

Bruce froze.  _ Keep him? _

“I’m not an object, something you can own,” he spat, suddenly angry.  _ No one _ was going to keep him.

A flash of silver caressed his cheek. “Not with that attitude. Just because I won’t kill you, doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you. C’mon, Bruce darlin’, you were being so pleasant. Let’s get back there, shall we?” Jerome hummed. “After all, you clearly have a lesson to learn, yes?”

“If you’re not going to kill me, what are you going to do to me?” Bruce was still trying to keep his voice strong. How he had acted so blase about it all earlier, he had no idea.

Jerome’s arm finally fell, releasing Bruce from his cage. The red-haired boy turned to seat himself on top of the desk that had let Bruce down miserably. “Me?  _ I’m _ not going to do anything. I wasn’t the one who tried to shoot another human being. That’s despicable, by the way, Brucie. The question should be, what are  _ you _ going to do to make it up to me?”

Once again, Bruce was stuck trying to figure out what the hell Jerome wanted from him. Did he want money?  _ No,  _ he answered himself. Maybe he wanted Bruce to beg him for forgiveness?  _ Probably.  _ But-no, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

“I’m sorry for trying to escape,” Bruce murmured, knowing it wasn’t enough as soon as he met Jerome’s eyes.

“And?” the maniac pressed.

“And I’ll never do it again.”

“Of course you won’t. You aren’t that stupid. And?”

“And I want you to forgive me,” Bruce said quietly.

“You _want_ me to forgive you?”  
“I _need_ you to forgive me.” He was almost pleading now. This was more humiliating than anything else he’d done that night.

“Then work for it,” Jerome suggested. “How am I supposed to know how badly you want to be forgiven if all I hear are words, words,  _ words? _ ”

And there it was. The bridge Bruce hadn’t wanted to cross. He knew Jerome valued actions over words; that’s just the sort of person he was. Words spoken by anyone else other than himself bored him more than daytime television. Bruce could sort of understand that, he just didn’t like where it landed him now.

Bruce took a step closer to Jerome. The knife still sat expectantly in his palm. “How can I make it up to you?” 

“You’re a clever boy. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” Bruce hated the way Jerome tried to make him feel so much younger than himself. They were only three years apart, thanks to the year and a half the sociopath had been dead. 

He took another step, now only inches from Jerome who sat leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. Bruce placed a hesitant hand under the older boy’s chin and whispered, “Please.” Before Jerome could respond, Bruce pressed another kiss to his lips. This time he was soft, gentle, and timid, as if the thought of Jerome being angry with him broke his heart. The boy beneath him didn’t move, but allowed Bruce to kiss him.

When he pulled away, all Jerome said was, “Do you think a single kiss is worth a bullet wound?”

“I’ll kiss you a thousand times,” Bruce answered, slowly becoming desperate. He wanted this night to be over. But at the same time, he felt like he was sabotaging himself, making all of it drag on so much longer than it needed to. He wanted to know if Alfred was okay. But somehow, the idea of leaving Jerome’s side began to scare him. And that terrified Bruce even more.

“And I’ll look forward to that. But not right now. You’ve already kissed me, Bruce. I know it doesn’t take too much to get your lips moving.” Jerome’s green eyes gave nothing away, although they didn’t stray from Bruce’s hazel ones.

“Then what do you want?” He could’ve gone without hearing the answer.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a prodigy or something? I thought it would’ve been obvious. You’ve been such a tease all night.” Now something flickered in that green gaze. Amusement? The statement almost sounded like a dare.

“Oh,” was all Bruce could think to say. He started again, trying to reclaim his composure. “I mean, if that’s all you wanted, you could’ve just said so.” Steeling himself, he kissed Jerome again, trailing his fingers down his body. The boy seemed taken aback by his eagerness, but at this point, Bruce was done trying to pretend the evening could have gone any other way. If he tried to leave, Jerome would hurt him. If he refused to back down, Jerome would hurt him more. Bruce had nothing to defend himself with and no leverage besides his body. And if that was truly his only tool, he’d use it to keep himself alive. He didn’t care what the sociopath said: if Bruce became enough of an annoyance, Jerome wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. So he’d do whatever it took. And if he was being honest with himself, it was getting harder and harder to remember why he hated Jerome the longer he stayed with him.

He allowed his fingers to dance farther down Jerome’s body, occupying the older boy with his tongue. Bruce brushed his fingertips against the front of his fitted white pants, smirking against Jerome’s lips as hips instinctively thrust up to meet his hand. Although he’d never done this before, Bruce was well acquainted with male anatomy, and therefore had a decent idea of how to perform the task at hand. Jerome broke the kiss but made it clear he wanted Bruce to remain where he was. A tug on the hem of his sweater made the maniac’s intentions known. He slipped it off easily, feeling strangely naked in just a black t-shirt and jeans. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a piece of clothing that wasn’t trying to strangle you,” Jerome pointed out, a lazy smile on his face.

“Says the guy who waltzed into my house wearing a leather collar,” Bruce retorted, forgetting his act for a moment.

Jerome glanced behind him to wear the collar lay on the floor. “Touche. If you like it so much, why don’t you wear it?”

“I-” There was no arguing with him. Jerome wanted him to wear the stupid thing so that’s exactly what he’d do. “Sure.”

“See, we’re already learning how to behave,” Jerome cackled as he spun around and hopped off the desk, retrieving the offensive object. 

“Oh, and, that other shirt will have to go. Wouldn’t want anything detracting from your new accessory, now would you?” he said as he returned, a sly look in his eyes.

Bruce shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them, saying, “Of course not.” The t-shirt joined his sweater on the floor.

Jerome eyed at his bare torso, whistling appreciatively. “You  _ do _ look pretty with my initials etched into your skin.” He sat back on the desk and pulled the leather around his throat, fastening it shut. Bruce wanted to hate the feeling of it surrounding him, hate how it made him feel like an object to be owned, but the way Jerome gazed at the collar fondly managed to make it bearable. Until he felt a tug, and remembered the leash attached to it, which was now twirling in Jerome’s fingers. “I knew this thing would come in handy when I stole it off that dominatrix.”

A laugh almost escaped Bruce, but he restrained himself, choosing instead to follow the pull of the leash and stand between Jerome’s legs. The red-haired boy captured his mouth in another kiss, and wasted no time in guiding Bruce’s hand back to where it was before. The kiss grew far more heated when Bruce tried nipping at Jerome’s lip, an action the older boy apparently liked very much. Their tongues clashed, and Jerome gave another sharp tug at the strip of leather between his hands. Still massaging the front of his pants, Bruce nimbly popped open the button, figuring at this point he was just delaying the inevitable. Undoing the zipper, he tugged the pants downward, hearing Jerome hum in satisfaction when Bruce broke the kiss and dropped to his knees.

He must admit, he’d never had such a close-up view of another man’s body before, but in Bruce’s objective opinion, Jerome was almost unfairly well off. And after Bruce’s careful attention earlier, he was already hard. Everything was perfectly proportionate, although being in the position he was, the length intimidated him. Another tug at his collar prompted Bruce out of his analysis. He looked up at Jerome through his lashes, making sure those green eyes were on him as he placed a soft kiss on the flushed tip before tracing it with his tongue. A sharp intake of breath could be heard above him. Reaching up, Bruce wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and licked a wet stripe along the underside. He tried to tell himself it was just like what he’d done to Jerome’s finger (and then his knife), but this felt entirely different. It was obscene, shameful, and undeniably arousing. Shutting his eyes, he licked his way back up and took the length into his mouth as far as he dared. A good couple inches were left exposed to the air, so he made up for it with the motions of his hand.

Visualizing what would feel the best, Bruce hollowed out his cheeks and pulled off slightly before taking his cock back in, this time fitting another inch. He sucked around the length, earning a soft moan in response. Jerome’s free hand wound itself in Bruce’s dark hair, tousled from everything they’d done earlier. He, almost tenderly, guided Bruce for a moment, before deciding he’d had enough time to get adjusted. The grip on his hair tightened as Jerome held him in place, thrusting his hips forward in rhythm with the bobbing of Bruce’s head. He felt his cock hit the back of his throat and did his best not to gag, instinctively swallowing instead. A heavier moan came from Jerome, whose thrusts began to pick up in pace. His own growing erection was becoming painful to ignore, and Bruce slipped his hand down to massage the front of his jeans. An aggressive jerk of the leash made him gag this time, spluttering. Jerome wouldn’t speak until Bruce met his gaze, cock still in his mouth.

“No touching yourself,” the sadist commanded, voice raspy.

Bruce could say nothing in response, but tried to plead with Jerome using only his eyes. All sense of dignity was thrown out the window. He needed to alleviate the heat pooling in his abdomen.

“Are you going to listen or do I need to tie your wrists, too?” Jerome asked, tone dangerous.

Shaking his head vigorously, he placed both his hands behind his back and continued sucking, making more use of his tongue in an attempt to earn his own pleasure. The snapping of Jerome’s hips increased again, and soon he was saying things that made the task of not touching himself impossible.

“You have no idea how beautiful you look, Brucie,” he panted, giving Bruce’s hair another pull.  _ Beautiful?  _ Sure, he might have painted quite the picture, saliva coating his flushed lips, messy hair being yanked in every direction, restrained by the white collar, but he wasn’t sure if he would’ve picked the word  _ beautiful. _

Jerome’s cock was hitting the back of his throat with every thrust now, and Bruce could taste pre-cum on his tongue. It wasn’t as bitter as he’d expected. In fact, the flavor was rather mild. 

“You know, they say the only line between lovers and enemies is how often they fuck,” Jerome continued, breathing heavily. “And I would gladly make the sight of you taking my dick down that pretty pink throat of yours a regular thing.” Bruce was pretty sure no one said that, but he had to clench his fists nonetheless to keep them in place.

The older boy seemed to notice his agonizing state, pulling Bruce off him for a moment. “You want to touch yourself that badly?”

Nodding, he answered, “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me, Jerome,” he practically whined.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” he answered instantly, breathless.

“Tell me how much.” He really was a talker, wasn’t he?

Rubbing a finger over the wet tip of Jerome’s cock, he said slowly, “More than anything, Jerome. You take such good care of me.” Slowly, he lifted the finger to his lips, tasting the boy’s pre-cum as he watched. Jerome licked his own lips before murmuring, “Go ahead.”

Swiftly undoing his jeans, Bruce moaned as he took himself in his hand. Twisting his other hand up and down Jerome’s length, he placed a wet kiss on it before taking it in his mouth once more. Watching Bruce play with himself seemed to arouse him further, sounds of pleasure escaping him frequently. After a few minutes passed, he jerked himself to completion, already halfway there when he’d finally been allowed to tend to his own erection. Bruce gasped as he came, streaks of white splattering Jerome’s thighs and the underside of the desk. He felt Jerome tense, thrusts growing harder and more drawn out until the redhead’s own orgasm shot down his throat. Stifling his gag reflex again, he did his best to swallow every drop. The last thing he needed was a sloppy finish to make Jerome feel the need for another round. Not that he’d necessarily protest.

Feeling guilty, he licked the boy’s thighs clean. Jerome gave another yank of the leather strip, pulling Bruce up for a messy kiss. The sounds of their uneven breathing filled the room. A sense of post-orgasm bliss filled him, making his head feel fuzzy. Eventually they broke apart and Bruce just rested his head against Jerome’s chest, the latter now stroking his hair. Everything was so pleasant until reality came crashing down and Bruce recalled the context of his situation.

Hastily, he pulled away from Jerome, tore off that despicable collar,  and redid his jeans, doing the same for the sociopath out of decency.

“You’re not even letting me fall asleep before you try and slip away?” Jerome asked, breaking the silence. “Your post-oral etiquette could use some work, darling.”

“Alfred,” he said simply.

“No, I’m Jerome. Good guess, though.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he snapped, grabbing his sweater. 

“Brucie, I think you’re forgetting something,” Jerome singsonged, holding up his switchblade.

Eyeing it, he muttered, “You wouldn’t.” After everything he’d said to Bruce, he wasn’t going to kill him. Right? Maybe he could try and get the knife away from Jerome. It was only a knife. But it wasn’t the blade itself that scared him.

Jerome raised an eyebrow, smirking. “One blowjob and you already think I’m a saint? I don’t know my own strength. I’ve planned a whole evening of festivities for you, my little Prince. It’d be rude to cancel now.”

“You assaulted my butler and manipulated me into sucking you off. But yes,  _ I’m _ being rude.” His cheeks burned as he spoke. Admitting what he did out loud, even to the person he did it with, was humiliating.

“Oh ho,  _ manipulated? _ ” Jerome cackled, paying no mind to how uncomfortable it made him. “If I do recall correctly, I would’ve been content with murdering you right over there,” he gestured to the windows, “and skipping on my merry way.”

“I just want to know he’s okay,” Bruce replied coldly, slipping into his shirt and sweater. Avoiding eye contact with the green-eyed boy was nearly impossible, but he did his best.

“C’mon,” Jerome said, softening at Bruce’s tone and hopping off the desk. He extended an open palm. “We’ll pass him on our way out.”

He wouldn’t cave. No matter how much those twinkling eyes watched him fondly. No matter how inviting his embrace looked. No matter how curious (and apprehensive) he was about the other “festivities”. Realizing all this denial would do him no good, Bruce reluctantly took Jerome’s hand, and allowed himself to be led downstairs. And hated himself for the way he wanted to lace his finger’s with the sociopath’s and never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a challenge for me to write as I wanted to push myself in terms of how much I could rationally grow these two in such a short amount of time. Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave any comments or criticisms! If you liked it, obviously there's room for more ~interaction~, but I wasn't sure if I should leave it as a one shot or not. Let me know! For more Valeyne content, you can check out my tumblr [@evelynsinkwell](https://evelynsinkwell.tumblr.com/)


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